


The Violet Wasp

by ungefug



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Electrocution, Episode: s02e08 The Rescue, Face Reveal, Gen, Hurt Din Djarin, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Non-Consensual, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Touching, Non-Consensual Violence, Psychological Torture, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-17 05:08:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28719405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ungefug/pseuds/ungefug
Summary: What if the Mandalorian hadn't taken off his helmet at Morak. What if he had been captured while attempting to rescue The Child and was left at the mercy of Moff Gideon, an ex-intelligence agent versed in torture with a personal interest in the man who nearly killed him.
Relationships: Din Djarin & Moff Gideon
Comments: 4
Kudos: 35





	1. Prologue

When they came, boarding Moff Gideon’s light cruiser like reckless pirates, he was prepared. Their trail of destruction was easy to follow and their future path was hence easily predicted. First was his devastating theft of the so-called child at Thyton. Then came their pathetic little undercover mission gone terribly wrong at Morak, where the traitor Migs Mayfeld was conveniently recognized in an instance by his former commanding officer. The traitor and the Mandalorian had to flee with their tails between their legs. Given the little crump of information they had nevertheless been able to obtain, it was only logical that they would come for him next. Such was the idiocy of love. 

Din Djarin, Bo-Katan and their entourage crashed their ship into the docking bay as he expected they would. There was of course some struggle. Some ships went up in flames, some good pilots were murdered in cold blood. But his dark troopers were ready. When they had the intruders encircled in the docking bay, their stolen ship destroyed and the only means of escape a dash into space itself, they finally surrendered. 

Moff Gideon would not miss this, he came to see for himself the moment when the Mandalorian, who had nearly killed him, laid down his arms. You could tell it in his posture, the reluctance with which he received his own defeat. This was not how it usually went, this was not how this day had unfolded in his mind. He must have shortly considered suicide, the warrior’s death. Moff Gideon has seen it many times before on Mandalore. A final, daring dash, which seemed senseless if one did not know its true aim: to die in combat, some faint notion of honour restored in such a death. But then something else won inside the man and.. the Mandalorian knelt. It was a very good day. 

Moff Gideon ordered the Mandalorian restrained and thrown into a prison cell and he was very particular that no one touched him and that no one was to break his vow or they would be in turn broken in two. It was his gift and he wanted to unwrap it. 


	2. Corpus

The Mandalorian’s cell was a small and empty white room, isolated and quiet. When Moff Gideon entered, the prisoner stood facing the door, upright and proud, untainted by his circumstances. His hands were restrained behind his back. You could hear the cold sizzle of his handcuffs and there was a slim shackle around one of his ankles. The length of the attached leash was less than an arm's stretch. Its blue light reflected off his beskar armor, occasionally oscillating.

The door closed soundlessly behind Moff Gideon.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Din Djarin,” he said.

The Mandalorian did not like his name being used so freely. The quiet gleam of metal, the dark cross of the visor glared back at the Moff, angry but ultimately defeated. He saw that the darksaber was at Moff Gideon’s waist and that in his right hand he was holding a small but menacing rod which shone in a purple, iridescent chrome. There were two thin prongs at its end, like the jaws of an insect. The Mandalorian recognized the object as the infamous torture device known as the Violet Wasp. It had been very popular with the Imperial Security Bureau at some point in history.

"Where are your manners, Mandalorian? You will speak when I address you," Moff Gideon said and with a flick of his wrist the Violet Wasp extended to the length of two feet. A small white and blue arc of light trailed out of one prongs and very slowly made its way to the other. When the two prongs were connected, it made a snapping sound and the air crackled like fire.

“You came to torture me,” the Mandalorian said. His modulated voice betrayed no emotion and he did not move.

“Very observant,” Moff Gideon said and he smiled unkindly, as he often did. White sparks flew off the prongs of the rod as he swung it in circles, seemingly carelessly, like a walking stick in a dance routine. The sparks flashed on the black of his armor like stars.

“What for?” the Mandalorian asked, “you have already won.” His mask could not hide his bitterness at the confession.

“For pleasure, Din,” Moff Gideon said as if explaining the most obvious thing to a child.

There was that name again, which was not his to use. The Mandalorian swallowed the offense.

“You are bringing out the big guns,” he observed dryly, the eyes behind the visor fixed on the swirl of the rod, which was slowly approaching him. “Let’s take it slow.”

“I would not waste my time with anything else,” Moff Gideon said and with these words he swung the Violet Wasp at the Mandalorian, hitting him in the unprotected upper thigh. Out of pure reflex the Mandalorian moved to avoid the attack, but it came too fast.  
In the moment when the prongs connected with his body an intense pain like a snapping wire jolted through him. His muscles suddenly clenched and then just as suddenly released. His legs gave way, he simply collapsed. His head hit the floor with a thud. Beskar did not protect from concussion.  
The initial pain was quickly gone when he was no longer in contact with the prongs, but a numb helplessness remained. His legs were still trembling with the aftermath of the shock, muscles convulsing in painful spasm. With his arms tied behind his back and his legs disobeying, he had to lay there helplessly.  
Looking up he found Moff Gideon mustering him with the curious expression of a scientist looking through the magnifying glass.

“This is your first acquaintance with the Wasp.”

“None of your business,” the Mandalorian forced through clenched teeth.

“Oh, it wasn’t a question,” Moff Gideon said.

He carefully aligned the Violet Wasp so that its pronged head was pointed at the soft and unprotected flesh, where the Mandalorian’s left leg met his torso. Deliberate in the exact position, he jabbed him again and this time he held it in place. The pain was worse than before. It shot up his spine, pulling it wide apart and crushing it back together again. His muscles clenched, released, clenched. He felt like he was going to snap one way or the other.  
The contact was broken before it could come to that. And again he lay helpless and panting.

“Dank Farrik!” he cursed breathlessly.

“Careful, you’ll bite your tongue,” Moff Gideon said and immediately shocked him again, in the same spot.

Once.

The Mandalorian groaned in pain.

Twice.

His moans were cut short, stifled in his throat.

Thrice.

By now the Mandalorian had stopped moving of his own volition. He was curled up in the fetal position. The muscles of his lower body twitched. His bones were hot, his muscles were sore. He felt like his flesh was boiling on the bone, the tendons snapping off, the muscles coming apart in tangled strands, like hair ripped from the root. He was dizzy and when he found some space in his mind to think he didn’t immediately recall where he was or why. He was trapped in a white box and the box was full of pain and the pain was overflowing. He needed to control it, needed to control himself. Every bodily function seemed to escape him, uncontrollably. Any longer and he would soil himself like a child. Any longer and his own muscles would break his hips and snap his spine.

He passed out.


	3. Anima

When he came to it again, Moff Gideon was impatiently nudging him with his foot.  
The events of the preceding minutes slowly reassembled in his mind like a puzzle, but some pieces were missing and could not be found. As soon as the overall picture had come together and he recalled his place, he quickly dragged himself as far away from his torturer as possible. He rested his back against the wall of the cell. He felt as sore as if he’d been running for days. His suit was wet with sweat, now sticky and cooling. The skin of his stomach and thighs burned. He could feel it peeling, oozing into the fabric that clung to it.

“Impressive performance,” Moff Gideon said with a hint of sarcasm, “for a man of your size and species it usually takes two to three applications to reach unconsciousness.”

His jailor mustered him with some curiosity, swaying his head back and forth as if weighing options in his head. With some relief the Mandalorian saw that the Violet Wasp was no longer in his hand but at his belt.

“Now that we are properly introduced, I must admit that I can respect a man who stands by his convictions, yet this vow of yours, that _religion_ ,” he said, spitting the word out like an insult, “it's so terribly primitive.”

“It is the way,” the Mandalorian said and it soothed him.

“How old were you when you took the vow?”

“I won’t converse with you, _aruetii_. Spare me the words and knock me out again.”

Moff Gideon laughed. It wasn’t a friendly laugh, but his surprise was genuine.

“If I were to offer you a say in this matter, would you prefer me to take off your armor and leave you your helmet or vice versa?" he asked. His face gave away nothing but mild amusement.

The Mandalorian looked at him for a while, his head tilted like a curious dog. The motions of his body were exaggerated as expected of one who could not convey by means of facial expression.

"I am asking, how much are you willing to give in exchange for your face, your little vow?”

He was considering the question, that freedom of choice opened up to him all of a sudden out of coercion and submission. He pondered the implications. Knowing what the man had already done to him, the things that evidently entertained him.

“What do you want with my body?” he finally asked, “Are you one of _that kind_?”

“That kind?” Moff Gideon replied, raising his eyebrows. “Ah, _that kind_..” he said and smiled slyly. The implication seemed funny to him. “I’m not interested in your orifices, Mandalorian,” he said with a smirk. Then suddenly, the tone no longer light-hearted, he asked, “what is the difference between a Mandalorian mercenary and a Mandalorian whore?”

His mouth twisted in a sly little smile. It was a joke after all. He came closer, squatted down, eye to eye with the Mandalorian, looking at his own distorted reflection in the helmet. His audience would not cooperate, the Mandalorian refused to entertain the question, the slit of his visor glaring back at him. They looked at each other in silence. The helmet swallowed the sound of the Mandalorian's deep breathing, but it couldn’t hide the rise and fall of his chest. Moff Gideon’s smile grew wider. He had a keen nose for weakness and he was salivating at the sight.

“There is none,” he said dryly and he laughed abruptly as if it was the funniest thing. He stood up again, turned away, laughing still to himself, turned around again, cape twirling, his dark eyes fixed keenly on the prisoner at his feet. Then he stepped on the Mandalorian, planting his foot somewhere between stomach and groin and pushing down hard. The Mandalorian swallowed down a cry. He strained against his shackles as he instinctively tried to curl up. The joints in the arms behind his back cracked. His shoulders tensed. Moff Gideon came down harder, foot still firmly on the man below and grabbed his head, holding the helmet in both hands. The Mandalorian knew what was coming.

"No, no," he said and his voice cracked mechanically.

“Shut up,” Moff Gideon said coolly.

Now that it was inevitable the prospect was more frightening than the Wasp, frightening enough to drive the Mandalorian to beg.

“No, _please_ don't,” he pleaded and he squirmed and wiggled, jerking away, straining every muscle to avoid the forcible breaking of his vow.

Still there was such strength in his body, Moff Gideon could feel it, every muscle at war with something. The Mandalorian’s boots dragged over the floor, his legs twitched with the desire to kick and fight. It would be so easy now. But what then? What would happen after he had rammed his helmet into the man's nose, thrown him off, jumped up and straddled him and for lack of hands used his own head to beat his face into a bloody pulp. What then, what would happen to the little one, who would have to pay?

The foot was pressed down harder and deeper, into the Mandalorian’s soft parts. The boiled skin came off with it. He winced.

“Behave yourself,” Moff Gideon hissed.

Remembering what was on the line, who was on the line, the Mandalorian fell back, slack and hopeless. Now Moff Gideon was on him, fiddling with the helmet, looking for a release, fingers of one hand pushing under the rim of the helmet, grazing his neck, the cool fabric of his bodysuit, the turtleneck scrunched around his throat, the taunt tendons of his neck. His clenched jaw line twitched, when he touched it.

“Left,” the Mandalorian said and nudged his head towards the helmet’s closure. Even through the modulation his voice was sour and heavy with guilt. He was complicit now.

“Thank you.. dear,” Moff Gideon said, smiling down at the angry cross of the visor, and with a click the helmet was released. He held it in his hands with a firm grip. He could hear the Mandalorian now, his breath. Now this was the moment before the parting of the curtains, this was the moment when the blade is pushed to the utmost point before piercing the skin.

He lifted the helmet.

What a pathetic sight it was. The Mandalorian was merely a man, a pudgy looking middle-aged man with soft features and moist eyes. His skin was brown and gleaming with sweat. He wore a spotty beard, a moustache and long brown curls clung to his wet forehead. His only remarkable feature was the thick beak-like nose. There was spit and blood on his lips, it looked like he had been biting them too hard. And then those big brown eyes, looking up at him and pleading, pleading without restraint of any kind.

“How utterly disappointing,” Moff Gideon said with disdain, but disappointed he was not. The Mandalorian looked like a man who had never learned to hide his feelings. He was quivering, weeping, begging, broken and more, all in his eyes. Like a child in the body of a man and a child terrified to be seen. It was utterly delightful.

He stepped away from the Mandalorian and looked at the helmet in his hands, turning it around, comparing it to that all too human visage. It was a fine trophy. The beautiful fierce lines of it, a design perfected over generations. Solemn and powerful, it had been the model for the stormtrooper's helmet. He thought it would make a good mantelpiece. Holding a Tu-Dusscan Brandy in hand he would watch the blue lights of transmissions flicker off the beskar.

The prisoner at his feet had not moved an inch, like frozen in time, his eyes still just as wide and distraught.

“Oh, what will I do with you?” he said, playfully, pondering, “What will I do to you?”

Words seemed to come slowly to the Mandalorian and when he spoke it was as if he was surprised by the sound of his own voice. Not being in the habit of talking to himself in rare private moments, when he took off the helmet, it had been a long time since he had heard himself speak without it.

“Have you not taken enough?” he asked, softly. He felt naked, opened like a bleeding sore.

“Oh, don’t be so overly dramatic,” Moff Gideon said.

He tucked the Mandalorian's helmet under his arm, like the head of a slain beast. Intent to savour every moment, he decided to leave the prisoner for now. Then he remembered something. He placed the helmet carefully on the ground. He took off his gloves, folded them neatly and placed them next to the helmet. It looked mutely at the two of them. The Mandalorian was staring past him, at the helmet on the floor, locked into its judgemental gaze. He didn't even seem to notice Moff Gideon until the man grabbed him by the face with both hands, skin on skin, fingers digging into his thick hair. The Mandalorian jerked away, and was only held tighter in return.

"Shush," Moff Gideon said, cooing.

When he forced their eyes to meet, the Mandalorian looked like someone who had just been terribly violated in ways he had been previously unaware of.

"How long since someone touched you?" Moff Gideon asked. He drew his thumb over the Mandalorian's cheek. The touch was gentle. The Mandalorian clenched his eyes shut. It did not help, it only made the feeling more intense. And it wasn't an entirely terrible feeling to be caressed.

"Twenty years..." he said into the darkness, "...no, twenty-five soon."

"I think we will get to know each other intimately," the voice said out of the darkness.

**Author's Note:**

> I might be overthinking this but I feel like this needs to be said:
> 
> I was writing this solely for my own escapist pleasure. But the subject matter led to some further research into the effects of electrical torture. Now suddenly historical reality pressed itself upon me and made me a little uncomfortable to write so salaciously about a character portrayed by an actor of Chilean descent, being tortured by a (space) fascist and former agent of a (space) Gestapo, using a (space) picana electrica. If none of this rings a bell, all the better, I am definitely overthinking this.
> 
> I put these notes at the end because I really don't wish the fic to be read with that context in mind and I hope anyone personally affected by the subject matter was already out when they read the tags.


End file.
